


Late Night Lace

by foxjar



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Abuse, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Kitagawa Yusuke, Crossdressing, Drama, First Time, Forced Feminization, M/M, Post-Canon, Pseudo-Incest, Sexual Coercion, Shukita Halloween 2020, Top Kurusu Akira
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:08:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26846410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxjar/pseuds/foxjar
Summary: Wearing women's lingerie is one of the few things that Madarame introduced Yusuke to — something his sensei both gave him and viciously stole from him — that he feels he has much control over. Yusuke could stop, if he really wanted to; he could box it all up, at least the physical remnants of his trauma, and stow it in the deepest corner of the closet. He could throw it all in the trash.Or he could keep it.
Relationships: Kitagawa Yusuke/Kurusu Akira, Kitagawa Yusuke/Madarame Ichiryusai
Comments: 5
Kudos: 85
Collections: Shukita Halloween





	Late Night Lace

**Author's Note:**

> Shukita Halloween (day seven) prompts: Free Day! I chose crossdressing.

A well-kept secret hidden on the top shelf of Madarame's closet. Yusuke's arms strain to reach it, his neck angled uncomfortably as he wills his body up and up, to the box cradled in darkness.

At last it's in his arms, light but heavy with shame. He nearly falls back, the balls of his feet sliding on the floor, but he manages to steady himself.

Within the box is an array of women's undergarments, beige and cream. Bras, panties, and slips.

They once belonged to his mother. While Yusuke doesn't understand the exact reason why his sensei keeps them — does the clothing bring him joy, or is it the pain that Madarame thrives off of? — he at least knows that Madarame was in love with his mother.

Perhaps he still is. Why else would he keep the box? Why else would he run his fingers through Yusuke's hair, telling him how much he looks like his mother? In public, even. It always makes people smile; such affection this family shares. Such warmth. Madarame had been so kind to take Yusuke under his wing after his mother had died. Such a selfless man.

But in private, his sensei is so often squeezing his thigh. Trailing his withered hand up from his knee to where the comparisons to Yusuke's mother end. Madarame cups the front of his pants, easing his body to hardness even as hot tears threaten to spill from Yusuke's eyes. His body is boiling with shame, but how can he say no?

It's Madarame who first shows him the box. He directs him toward it like it's a game: warmer, colder, colder.

_It's right there, Yusuke. How can you not see?_

_Perhaps I could. If not for the tears in my eyes._

The condescension never ends, nor do Madarame's hands ever seem to leave. They are running up his chest from behind, scaling his body with such familiarity, as Yusuke reaches up for the box. He will pull it down, and that will be that.

It's never that simple.

"Open it," Madarame instructs, fingers plucking at his belt buckle.

The secret is breathed into the world, fire against his neck, just like Madarame's words upon his skin.

"You will wear it for me," he says.

Yusuke tries to grab one of the slips, one that will cover him more, but Madarame pulls it out of his hand. Guides him to a bra and pair of panties.

Lacy, beige. Soft fabric, the bands tight around his chest and hips.

He should hate it, detest it, but he doesn't. Why doesn't he hate it?

"Our little secret," Madarame whispers. Not because he fears being caught, but because he knows it makes Yusuke tremble.

"Yes." Yusuke nods as Madarame pulls him into his lap. "Our secret."

* * *

The habit remains with him long after Madarame is gone, sent to prison for years and years. Where could the habit go? Where could it run off to?

What Madarame kept up in that dark closet are relics of Yusuke's mother. Like his sensei before him, he doesn't have the heart to throw them away.

Now he acquires his own. If he orders online, it can be his own little secret. His measurements are off at first, but he gets better. He tracks the packages with trepidation, sweat rolling down his back. When he cuts through the tape on the packages, he takes his time, coaxing the boxes open.

And then, beneath the crinkly paper and bubblewrap, he is awarded with frills and lace; blue and pink; panties with bows and bras that hook in the back.

How frustrating those hooks are. How is he supposed to fit the pieces together if he can't see them? But he manages. He learns.

As he lies back on his futon, he lets his hands wander. They run down his stomach, touching himself through his panties, the tip of his cock peeking out from beneath the thin strip of frills.

He doesn't think he ever would have thought to view himself in such a way if not for Madarame. If not for someone else's influence. He can't thank him, not after everything, even as his heart yearns to attempt to justify Sensei's actions.

Maybe Madarame lost a part of himself when Yusuke's mother died, or maybe he lost it somewhere else along the way. But that doesn't excuse what he did: watching Yusuke's mother die once greed overcame him, manipulating his students and making their lives a neverending hell.

And the touching, the groping, the cooing in his ear as Madarame eased him down onto the futon, telling him how beautiful he was, trussed up in his mother's underwear. Pushing the panties aside and pressing inside, even as Yusuke gasped and clawed at him, not to get him to stop but to beg, please, don't make it hurt. Please. Have mercy. If Madarame had ever had an ounce of respect or love for him, he wouldn't have made it hurt so bad. He wouldn't have forced Yusuke's body into shock with the ministrations of his own — then come back for more, drinking him in with his lips, a heavy sigh plaguing his breath as if the first round hadn't been enough.

Madarame was only merciful once his heart was forcibly changed. And then he was a groveling mess, crawling on the floor and pulling at the hem of Yusuke's pants, begging for forgiveness. But by then, it was far too late.

Wearing women's lingerie is one of the few things that Madarame introduced Yusuke to — something his sensei both gave him and viciously stole from him — that he feels he has much control over. Yusuke could stop, if he really wanted to; he could box it all up, at least the physical remnants of his trauma, and stow it in the deepest corner of the closet. He could throw it all in the trash.

Or he could keep it. He could continue traipsing around in it when he's alone in his room, as he has been. And why not? There's no one to tell him to stop, no one to demand he continue. The only person to decide is Yusuke himself, and he decided long ago that he likes the feel of the lingerie, the tightness around his thighs, chest, heart.

A little too careless, a little too sure. Sometimes he needs the thrill even when he's away from home now, so he starts wearing the underwear as a replacement for his own. It isn't all the time, just when he feels like he needs it.

It's summer break during their final year of high school when Yusuke visits Akira over in Kamogawa, his hometown. Everyone else came down to visit for the day, but Yusuke will be staying the night at Akira's request. And in the morning, when he's good and ready, Akira will drive him back to Tokyo.

Akira drives now, and Yusuke can see that such progress has instilled a sense of pride in him. Akira is mysterious like a cat, preferring to keep to the shadows more often than not; he never sought out the limelight back in Tokyo, never asked to lead, and yet he handled it well. But there's another part of him that likes to feel useful. Not that any of the ex-Phantom Thieves would allow their friendship to wither, not if they could help it, but Akira is always clawing his way up, trying to help more. Why stop at being their leader — a quiet listener, a shoulder to cry on? Why stop at all?

Yusuke doesn't ask why Akira is offering such special treatment. His parents are out of town for work, and Akira stops at the store while Yusuke meanders off to the beach, sketchbook in hand. It's such a rare treat to be able to draw from direct reference like this. Who knows when he'll be back in Kamogawa? Soon, he hopes. The sea is a murky gray, lapping at the shore, ticking Yusuke's feet. Once the sun starts to set, the other beachgoers start to pack up their things, but Yusuke remains until Akira comes to collect him, hand on his shoulder.

"It's beautiful, is it not?" Yusuke asks, eyes darting from his sketch to the ocean, then back to Akira's face, full of the evening's shadow.

"Yeah," Akira agrees, his eyes never leaving Yusuke's face. "It is."

Back at the house, Akira has laid out a feast of soups and rice and tofu. A buffet, of sorts. Akira doesn't say that he's made this much food because he knows Yusuke doesn't eat well back at home, but he doesn't have to. As Yusuke brings a bowl of soup to his lips, he thinks of the radishes growing back in his dorm, confined to their planter as they soak in the sunlight through the window, but the moment passes once the seaweed touches his tongue. Soft, swimming with the savoriness of the broth.

It's a special sort of night, but Yusuke doesn't know why Akira is doting on him. Akira puts fresh sheets and blankets on his bed, then rolls out the guest futon — for himself.

Yusuke is watching it all unfurl from the chair at Akira's desk, his legs tucked up on the seat as he sips his drink. It's green tea blended with hot chocolate, another Special Thing, and when Yusuke had expressed his delight upon first taste, Akira's eyes had lit up.

"Why?" Yusuke asks, gesturing with his cup. "Why all of this?"

Akira seems surprised, staring at Yusuke before his lips finally curl into a smile. He stretches his back, yawns, and says, "Because you're here, of course."

How is it different from when Yusuke had stayed the night with him at Leblanc? Akira's always been willing to cook for him — eager, even — but why sacrifice his own bed?

It's been months since that night. What has changed since then, other than the passage of time?

Akira leaves to brush his teeth, and Yusuke is alone with his empty cup and a head full of thoughts. He sets his cup on the desk before he begins unbuttoning his shirt, leaving on his bra as he starts pulling down his pants.

This is when the water in the bathroom shuts off, and Yusuke's hands freeze on the waistband of his pants. He has more than enough time to kick off his pants and crawl into bed, but he doesn't even try.

The carefulness has all run out of him, like watercolor blossoming on a page. It isn't immodest of him; he just isn't thinking. Or maybe he's thinking too much; perhaps he wants Akira to see, wants to share his secret with someone at long last.

He hears Akira before he sees him, hears the breath catch in throat, the silence that pervades. The band of his bra around his chest feels tighter than ever.

It's Akira's turn to ask "why," and Yusuke isn't sure how to respond. Would it be appropriate to tell him how it all started? Is that something Akira would be curious to hear?

"I enjoy it," Yusuke says carefully, a riveting prologue as he turns to face him, but Akira shakes his head.

"Why are you letting me see, I mean?"

When Yusuke looks up at him, there is hunger in Akira's eyes. His fists are clenched at his sides, his lips quivering as he tries to make sense of the scene before him.

"Does it disgust you?" Yusuke asks, neither moving to finish undressing nor reaching to pull his clothes back on. "Do I disgust you?"

"Of course not."

"Then why do you stare at me in such a way?"

_With eyes that glow and hands clenched as if they wish to reach out and hurt me._

"Because you're beautiful, and I —" Akira takes a step toward him, and the backs of Yusuke's knees hit the bed. "You're showing me this for a reason, aren't you? Please tell me that's why."

Is there a conscious reason Yusuke let him see? He isn't sure. But even if there isn't, the last thing he wants to do is confess that. Akira is stepping closer, his fists shaking; when Yusuke can finally feel the warmth of his breath, anything he might've wanted to say escapes him.

"I want you," Akira says, shattering each and every assumption Yusuke has ever made about him. He's close enough that Yusuke can smell the mint of his toothpaste, but his hands remain at his sides. It isn't that he wishes to hurt Yusuke; he wants to touch him, to feel him.

"You may touch me," Yusuke acquiesces, then adds, a bit shyly, "If you'd like."

It's still difficult for him to accept that Akira, of all people, desires him. It must be a trick. A ploy. Yusuke is clay and Akira is the artist, much like Madarame had been. He thinks about all of the people Akira helped back in Tokyo, himself included, simply because he could. Because it was in his power to do so. Often these people ended up being helpful to their Metaverse excursions in some way, but it was never about that.

What would it mean to have Akira touch him — to be more?

"Where do you like to be touched?" Akira asks, more consideration than Madarame ever gave him.

Yusuke leads Akira's hands to his chest, shuddering when his thumbs find his nipples through the fabric. Akira lets out a shaky breath mixed with a laugh, as if he can't believe any of this is happening. After all these months, how could things have changed so drastically, so suddenly?

The mattress creaks beneath them as Akira eases him up onto it, one hand still on his chest while the other traces the curve of his waist. He runs the stubs of his nails down Yusuke's ribs, more visible through his skin than they ought to be.

He hasn't been touched in so long, and never like this, but he doesn't tell Akira this. After Madarame was sent to jail, he didn't think anyone would ever desire him again. Who would want to touch such a dirty man, after all? Unclean, shameful. And not even about his kink itself, but because of his skill.

Will Akira remark on the way he kisses, passionate and sure? Akira's lips are a little unsteady against his, unsure of how far to press, how deeply. Will he ask Yusuke how he knows where he likes to be touched, and how he knows how to please another man? Not necessarily the way his hands move, fingers drifting teasingly across the front of Akira's sweatpants, but the sheer perseverance. The confidence that his body exudes as Yusuke pulls Akira into his arms.

But Akira doesn't ask him anything. Maybe he doesn't notice anything, or maybe he just doesn't care.

"Lace suits you," Akira says after he's kissed him, his hand trailing down the coolness of Yusuke's bare thigh.

Another "why" is on Yusuke's lips, but Akira kisses it away. There will be no clarification for him, not now.

Yusuke parts his legs, wrapping them around Akira's hips, pulling him in. Akira falls against him, smiling into his lips, as their bodies fit together. Not with perfection, as if they are two halves of a whole, but with warmth.

When Akira pushes aside the lace of his panties, Yusuke remembers: this is how Madarame touched him. His body jerks away, and Akira doesn't press him further.

"I won't hurt you," Akira says, his voice soothing, ignorant of so much of the pain coiled within Yusuke's heart. He tries to comfort him as if it's only the physical pain he's worried about — as if Yusuke has never experienced it firsthand.

Yusuke grabs his hand before it can slip away, leading him back into his panties, pushing the fabric aside. Akira takes the hint, easing his finger inside as Yusuke bucks his hips.

A strange fullness, but more to come. He lets Akira's fingers twist inside him, exploring him, making him tremble, until he can no longer lie still. The last thing he wants is prolonged foreplay. What he craves now is heat and pressure and a little bit of pain.

Yusuke likes it a little rougher than maybe he should. Maybe it was Madarame who taught him that. But that doesn't matter now, not when Yusuke leads Akira to lie on his back so that he can perch over his hips. He watches the way Akira's eyes gloss over, how he bites his lip before licking it.

And then Yusuke is pulling Akira's sweatpants down, feeling his warmth, his hand wrapping around his cock. He can't help but tease him a bit, his fingers circling the tip, tracing the slit and making sure to pump him fast, to make sure he can hear the way his pre-come slicks the length of him.

Akira is grasping at the sheets, his mouth awash with moans; his hips tremble in a frenzy beneath Yusuke. He wants to keep teasing him, to draw out every sound from his lips, but he craves the fire he had become so accustomed to. His thighs strain as he holds Akira's cock in place, easing himself onto him, his choked breaths filling his lungs as he tries to will the tightness away.

It isn't that easy, but he wants Akira inside in more ways than one: within his body, cradled in his heart. He can't blame his body for making it so difficult, for tingeing the stretch with such agony. But he perseveres — for Akira, for himself.

A glimmer of pleasure, a tease so thrilling he has to rock his hips, hands clutching Akira's shoulders now, feeling his muscles ripple beneath his fingers. Akira is gripping his hips, fingers slipping past the elastic waistband of his panties, trying to guide him in some way, but Yusuke is already moving, raising his body up and down as Akira's cock eases in and out of him.

It isn't fast enough. He leans over Akira, kissing his lips in a silent apology, before he's moving faster, faster, until there's just the sweat, the ache, the pressure, and Akira's moans. Amidst his breathy sighs, Akira is muttering fragmented words to him — how good it feels, how amazing, Yusuke.

_Yusuke._

If he allows the pleasure to whisk his mind away, to focus on nothing but the sensations inside him, he could come from penetration alone. But he doesn't want that, not like it's always been before, so he grabs one of Akira's hands, leading it to his cock. Akira latches onto it, gripping harder than he might've if not for the pleasure coursing through his own arousal, but it's all Yusuke wants and more. The friction, drawing him closer and closer in tandem with the orgasm coiling up inside him; the tinge of desperation, of inexperience with touching another man.

Yusuke's panties are tight in all the wrong places, unlike his usual underwear: around his hips, cock, thighs. But that's part of what makes it so thrilling, to be reminded of their constant presence; to feel Akira's eyes on him, all over him, drinking him in, his other hand drifting back up to Yusuke's bra.

All the wrong places — all the right places.

Akira lets him move at his own pace, as harsh as it might be, hips rolling and knees aching. The scratchiness of the blanket against his knees; the sweat painting his skin; Akira within him, deep and hot. His body aflame with lust and the desire to persevere, to keep AkIra's eyes on him for as long as possible.

Even after Akira has come inside him, his hips jerking as vulgarities leave his mouth, he's still pumping Yusuke in his hand. Still determined to bring him pleasure, even as his fingers tighten, moving so fast that his wrist is sure to ache later. His thumb swipes over the tip, spreading pre-come even as he closes his eyes, his hips finally slowing down.

Yusuke comes when Akira opens his eyes again, clear even behind his glasses, still full of that same hunger. Maybe Akira will be the one to match his fervor, to satiate him when he cannot satisfy even himself. His whole body coils up, his muscles wrenching, and then he's spilling in Akira's hand and up onto his chest, thick and translucent.

He's still gasping when Akira wraps his arms around him and pulls him to his chest, the mess between them be damned. Akira's heart thumps in his chest, every thrum a jolt against Yusuke's skin. Despite the awkwardness of lying on another person, of depending on them not to toss him off or roll over on him, Yusuke thinks he might be able to fall asleep like this.

Madarame never cradled him like this after sex, but Yusuke knew Akira would be different, anyway. From the moment it was clear where this night was heading — and perhaps even before, when Yusuke was slipping out of his clothes and not thinking of much at all — he knew Akira would treat him right.

Yusuke just didn't think he deserved it. He still doesn't, especially not when Akira starts patting his head after he's wiped his hands off with half a dozen tissues. Yusuke raises his head, pushing into the touch.

Perhaps the most comforting of all is the silence. Akira doesn't barrage him with questions that Yusuke doesn't even know the answers to yet. What was all this — just sex, or did it have a hint of something more, too? What now? Is more expected of Yusuke, like Madarame had expected the world of him?

Somehow, Akira expects nothing other than for Yusuke to allow his doting, to pat his head and dab his sullied body with tissues. When that isn't enough, he gently rolls Yusuke onto his back, pecks his lips, and leaves to grab a wet handcloth.

After everything they've done, Yusuke doesn't shiver. He watches the meticulous way Akira eases the chilled cloth over his body, wiping away sweat and come. Studying him, memorizing him, as if he's worth anything at all. His hands are careful not to touch his panties or bra too much, either in disgust or amazement. With the way Akira is touching him, Yusuke thinks it must be the latter.

Despite the whispers at the back of his head, the wriggling negativity that tells him he is nothing, Akira makes him feel like something.

Akira saw his deepest secret — and darkest, unbeknownst to the world — and still he looks at him like nothing could possibly be wrong with any of it. He looks at Yusuke as if it piques his interest, even; his eyes are dark beneath his glasses and his lips are pressed tightly together, and yet he asks no questions.

In return, Yusuke awards him the same silence. He doesn't inquire as to why Akira is so bent on cleaning him, on caring and comforting him. In the heat of the moment, he tries to tell himself that the "why" doesn't matter.

But when Akira slips back into bed, cuddling against him, that same "why" bubbles over in his chest and his eyes threaten to spill tears. Each and every one he has saved up over the years.

"What would you like for dinner tomorrow?" Akira asks, kissing the top of his head like it's the most casual thing in the world. As if it doesn't sear Yusuke's scalp with both confusion and yearning.

"I'm returning to Tokyo tomorrow," Yusuke reminds him.

Although he doesn't want to get his hopes up, he hears the briefest hint of something more, something that yearns just as deeply as he does for a sliver of calm amidst madness.

"I'd really like it if you'd stay," Akira murmurs, his voice trailing off with unspoken promises to keep Yusuke on his toes.

"I'd enjoy that," Yusuke says. One of Akira's hands wraps around his waist, pausing when his fingers accidentally dip beneath the elastic of his panties as if it's the most egregious offense in the world. He needs Yusuke's permission; he craves it as much as Yusuke craves those eyes on him, those searing kisses that tell him he matters.

"I would enjoy that immensely."


End file.
